


Where I Belong

by suspiciousteapot



Category: Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Angst, Gen, Growing Up, Some Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2229291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suspiciousteapot/pseuds/suspiciousteapot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Torrigan (Touchstone) trying to figure out where he belongs when he was growing up as the Queen's bastard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where I Belong

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Abhorsen Week, Day 7: Found.  
> Garth Nix owns the people and whatnot.  
> Kudos, constructive criticism and other comments are greatly appreciated :)  
> Hope you enjoy my last Abhorsen Week fic!

Torrigan’s mind wandered as Ser Warin quizzed them about Queen Eilena’s political tactics. It was the only lesson he shared with his siblings, they being so much older than him. Rogir and Corlyn didn’t even have lessons any more, apart from this one, which their mother thought was good practice for them.  
Usually he enjoyed their shared time and found picking apart the decisions of Queens and Kings of the past quite interesting, like playing a giant game, but today his brain could not focus on it. He was twelve. In less than a few months, he would be a man. _An adult should know what they’re doing with their life. I won’t be involved in the politics beyond being an emotional support for Julith, Corlyn and Rogir or someone to bounce ideas off of. I could simply remain the Bastard quite comfortably. I would hunt, pursue scholarly activities and attend social gatherings. I would likely marry a nice noblewoman and have children._ That path was one he’d thought about often, but it always made him feel strangely sad. Yet any other way seemed like walking into a mist. He was free to do what he wanted, not being a true prince of the realm. The freedom was dizzying in its vast emptiness. 

When the session ended, he left silently.

“You were awfully quiet today Torri,” commented Corlyn. “Are you well?” She had always looked after him like another mother, being eight years older than him. Usually he could tell or ask her anything, but today he had no words. She was so secure in her role as Royal Judge. She seemed born to the role and kept the peace easily. She would not understand how lost he felt.

“I was thinking of other things,” he answered noncommittally.

“Torrigan’s probably aware that that class is as useless for him as it is for me,” suggested Julith as she caught up to them. As the youngest legitimate child, she too would have little place in the political affairs of the crown, at least in the court. She would be more involved that Torrigan though, being legitimate. At 17 she already knew that she wanted to explore the Old Kingdom and the world, starting with the far north, past the Clayr’s Glacier. She was preparing to leave on her first voyage in two months, just after Torrigan’s birthday.

“As though you won’t have to be every inch the princess on your travels, little sister,” Rogir reminded Julith and he strolled up and threw an arm around her shoulder.

She sighed dramatically, “Don’t remind me.”

The three argued amiably about Julith’s upcoming trip and Torrigan slid back into his worries. He didn’t notice that his sisters were getting ahead of him, nor that Rogir had intentionally slowed his pace to match that of his younger brother.

“You’ll soon be 13. A man,” commented Rogir conversationally.

“Yes.” Confirmed Torrigan. He could hear the sadness in his one word and hoped that Rogir had missed it. Rogir was even less likely to understand his feelings than Corlyn. He was the heir. He was born to be King, and would do an amazing job. He was smart, handsome, charming and his ability of getting everyone to listen to him was second only to the Queen’s.

“So I assume you’ll be running off to explore with Julith as soon as the sun sets on your 13th year?” Rogir joked.

Torrigan attempted a laugh, but it sounded more like a choked sigh.

“I have no idea what I’ll do.” He admitted suddenly. He was tired of trying to figure it out by himself.

Rogir nodded. “I thought so. We all did.”

“Really?” Torrigan asked, surprised. 

“You’ve been moping around ever since Mother mentioned throwing a party for the occasion. Of course we guessed.” Rogir laughed.

“Even Mother?” Torrigan inquired nervously. 

“Of course Mother knows! You should know by now there’s little that she misses.” Rogir reproached him.

“Except for that time you -” He began, but Rogir cut him off.

“Ahh, dear brother, but that’s _me_ , not _you._ ” He grinned. ”I’m in line to be King, I have to practice deceit.” He ruffled his little brother’s curls. “You, on the other hand, are so honest you think not telling someone something is lying.”

Torrigan frowned. “It is. It’s lying by omission.”

Rogir laughed again. “I’m playing with you little brother. It was a jest.”

Torrigan’s frown deepened. _I should’ve kept up with the girls and avoided this. Better yet, I should’ve just picked a hobby when I was a child and gotten good at it. Then I wouldn’t be in this mess._

“Oh don’t be angry with me Nagirrot,” said Rogir, using Torrigan’s pet name. “I was only saying what you already knew.”

Torrigan chose not to answer and picked up his pace. Rogir easily matched it. They were silent as they climbed the stairs, but at Torrigan’s chambers, Rogir put a hand on his shoulder. Torrigan turned to face him, still scowling.

“Listen Torri, you aren’t the only one who’s every felt this way. We all did, even if we knew our role to some degree, we didn’t know how to fit into it. I hated the idea of being an adult. As for being the heir… I resented both my role and the idea of giving it up. But then I tried it. Mother allowed me to start handling different aspects of it and I came to enjoy it.” Rogir confided.

He ducked his head to catch his little brother’s eye. Torrigan reluctantly looked up at him. His anger was fading and he realized that Rogir was actually trying to help him.

“Try different things. Try being a scholar, try music; you’re good at that. Try being a spellmaker, try being a royal guard; the title would suit you better than anyone, that’s certain. Try anything and everything. You’ll find something that fits.” Rogir advised him confidently. “Think about it. You don’t have to know what you want to do by your 13th birthday, you know.”

Torrigan looked at his brother, eyes wide. He hadn’t considered that he could experiment with various roles and that he needn’t decide before he turned 13. _How did I not think of that?_ He stared through Rogir at the future beyond him as his mind explored the idea Rogir had offered him.

Rogir smiled and ruffled his hair again before walking away. “See you at dinner,” he called over his shoulder.

Torrigan began changing for dinner, still contemplating Rogir’s suggestion.

Being a spellmaker might be interesting. He would never be bored in that, surely. He would not join the Guard though, on that his mind was set. He would not allow himself, no matter his interest, no matter his past aspirations. Not with his history.

By the time he had reached the dining hall he had decided that he would first try spellmaking, then music, then metal-craft and finally he would try his hand at being a royal ambassador. Hopefully he would find a home in one of those roles. 

It was only himself, his mother, his sisters and his brother at dinner that evening, for which Torrigan was thankful. 

The Queen wasted no time. “I’m glad to see that you look more cheerful that you have for weeks Torrigan. Am I right in assuming you’ve come to some sort of decision regarding your future?”

He nodded slightly. “I have decided on a course of action more than an actual path.”

“Be more obscure, please Torrigan.” Said Julith sarcastically.

“Julith.” Their mother reprimanded her gently. “Let Torri explain.”

Torrigan looked over at Rogir who smiled over his wineglass.  
He explained his plan concisely and then studied their faces. 

“I’m so excited for you Torri!” said Corlyn warmly.

“As am I.” Agreed their mother. “I’m sure we’ll all be surprised with the role you’ll find.”

“Definitely. He’ll come back next year as an Ancelstierrian cricket star.” Julith joked.

Torrigan scowled and they all laughed. He wasn’t really angry. It was an old joke. They’d heard about the sport from an ambassador when they were little, and his siblings had tried to organize a game. He’d wanted to play, but was so small that when Rogir handed him the bat, he’d fallen over. They had never let him forget it.

He let the rest of the evening’s conversation wash around him. He was just relieved that they’d liked his plan and, most of all; he was relieved that nobody had asked about the Royal Guard.

…

Spellmaking proved interesting. The spellmaker apprentices studied in the back of the royal library. Every day for three months he went to the same end of the same gigantic table next to the same window that stretched from floor to ceiling. Four other apprentices worked with their teachers at the same table. Torrigan’s teacher was Madam Vale. The first thing she made him do was demonstrate his knowledge of the Charter with a written test that took four hours and a practical test that took just as long. 

Despite that, he liked her well enough. She was full of knowledge, both relevant and random. And, though her mind often swept her away and left her staring silently off into the distance in the middle of a sentence, he rarely felt frustrated when she was explaining a new concept to him. 

She told him on the first day that in his first two years he would only learn the history and methodology of the creation of increasingly more complicated spells as well as the implications of their creation. He sees the sense in it; a carelessly created destructive spell could have a great negative impact on the kingdom, as could, for that matter, a very creative spell that seemed like it would help society. He enjoyed learning it, but struggled to remember the details of the theory and history, leaving them out of his tests and getting chastised frequently. Always, in fact, save on one test.

“You have a knack for fighting spells.” Vale commented as she sat in the chair next to him and handed him back his test. It had only a small checkmark in the margin.

“It was perfect.” She explained as he stared at it incredulously.

“Thank you.” Was all he could think to say.

She laughed. “You’re the one who did it.”

“You taught me well.” He said politely, but honestly.

She raised an eyebrow, “past tense?” She missed little when she was paying attention.

“I’m…” he began. In truth, though the work was interesting, Torrigan was getting restless. He felt out of place with the other spellmakers and apprentice spellmakers. He had developed the annoying habit of tapping the table in various repeating rhythms when he began to feel restless, and the others at the table had begun to throw him dark looks. He also disliked how separate they were. They came together for meetings once a week so that the apprentices could share their learning, and he knew the elder spellmakers did the same, sharing their discoveries and insights, yet he felt disconnected. They were a community, but a loose one. No, he needed to be _doing_ , something instead of just reading and writing, and he need a team.

“- Feeling restless.” She finished the thought for him.

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, searching her face for signs of disappointment.

Instead, she smiled at him. “You were a good student, but it takes a particular personality for this work. Have you ever thought about the Royal Guard?”

He’d known she would ask it before she said it. He’d been wondering it himself since they’d started studying fighting marks. He’d thought about it long into the night and decided that it was only fear that was holding him back. _It was only one time. But the fact that I couldn’t remember it… That girl wasn’t been truly well again for a year._ No. He would stick to his plan. So spellmaking wasn’t for him. It had been a good experience, if nothing else. 

…

He liked music, especially the dances. He started with the lute, as he and his siblings were all taught the rebec to a degree deemed appropriate for royal children by their tutors. The lute, he figured, would be similar enough to the rebec while still being new and challenging. He quickly learned his favourite tunes and began more advanced melodies. He disliked sitting still for so long, but when he felt restless, he could let his mind wander, something he hadn’t been able to do when he’d tried to be a spellmaker. Sometimes he imagined dancing with someone he loved when he was older, or playing her a song. 

After three months, he moved on to singing. That proved to be the end of his short-lived musical career. He grew quickly frustrated with the songs. He had taken history lessons, as every royal child, and almost every child in the kingdom for that matter, did. The songs rarely followed history. Every time Torrigan pointed out how false the stories were, Sir Kael, his teacher, told him that music lived in a world that need not match reality. Torrigan hated that answer more every time he heard it.

“Ricmund the Brave was not actually the one who liberated the northern towns of the barbarian tribes. The leader of the barbarians met with the elder of the town of Till in the North and they agreed on a set of conditions -” He began, but Sir Kael cut him off harshly.

“We have had this discussion every day for the past two weeks Torrigan.” Kael snapped. “Who did what in real life is unimportant in the realm of music.” 

“Well the realm of music should go read a bloody book.” Torrigan retorted angrily as he stormed out of the room.

_Music can go bugger itself with a flute._

…

The metalworkers were in the upper eastern and western towers of the southern keep. Sir Smith taught the new apprentices. He was a blunt man, but a kind one, and he had great skill with metal.

Yet Torrigan struggled. The metal would not do what he wanted, no matter how he beat or spelled it. As the weeks passed, he grew more and more frustrated with his lack of progress. He could hear the other apprentices laugh and comment under their breath on his poor attempts.

The youth with whom Torrigan shared a forge, Marq, was unfortunately one of one of the most skilled first years. He was also one of the most vocal when it came to Torrigan’s attempts.

One day, Sir Smith was ill and assigned them all to begin their first true project as apprentices: to make a sword. In a desperate attempt to salvage what he hesitated to call his sword, Torrigan miscast a spell and ended up freezing the forge as Marq was working, ruining not only his sorry excuse for a sword, but Marq’s as well.

Marq rounded on him, face beet red. “Why are you still here?” He shouted. “You obviously have no talent for this. You’re just a stupid bastard.”

Torrigan froze.

_He was eight, walking along the hall thinking about playing hide-and-find with Julith later._

_He could hear two girls arguing._

_He turned the corner. They were about thirteen. One was tall and had brown hair. She wore the uniform of a steward. The other one was a bit shorter and had black, curly hair and was also a steward._

_“People meet new people when the person they loved die. It’s not wrong. The Queen did it.” The black- haired girl protested._

_“The Queen is a whore. She bedded some Northman soon as King Rolind was dead.” She brown-haired girl countered derisively._

_His mind registered what she’d said. She was talking about his parents._

_“Hey!”_

_They turned to look at him._

_The brown-haired girl looked him over “What do you want?”_

_He walked over to her. “Don’t call my mother that.”_

_The black-haired girl stared at him with wide eyes. “She didn’t -”_

_The brown-haired girl cut her off. “I did mean it. It’s the truth. And you’re stupid if you don’t know it. A stupid bastard.”_

_His fist connected with her face._

~

He was on Marq in less than a second. He pushed him against the wall so hard he could feel the shock of it through his own body. Marq’s eyes were wide with terror.

~

_He came to shivering with his arms and head pressed against the wall. He promptly vomited. He could hear people yelling, feel someone holding his arms in place. Out of the corner of his eye he could see blood on the floor and the slumped shape of the brown-haired girl on the floor. The shivering got worse._

_“Don’t just stand there gaping, someone bring a fucking healer!” It was Rogir’s voice, just above his head. He must be the one pinning his arms._

_Spots blinked in front of his eyes and his head swam. Then darkness fell and so did he._

~

_He woke up in his room._

_“How are you feeling, love?”_

_He turned to look at his mother. She didn’t look angry, just concerned… and sad._

_It was the sadness that brought it all back. He felt a lump forming in his throat._

_“Is that girl going to be alright?” he asked, voice quavering._

_She reached over and stroked his forehead with a cool hand._

_“You hurt her badly. She has a serious head injury and a broken arm. But she’ll recover, probably in a few months.” She explained calmly._

_“I didn’t mean to do that to her. I just wanted her to stop being mean. I don’t know what happened.” The last sentence was a whisper._

_“I know. But it’s not entirely unexpected.” She sighed._

_“What?” He willed himself to not cry._

_“You berserkered. I thought you didn’t have the trait because it usually rises at about the age of six.”_

_His face betrayed his confusion._

_“The berserker blood runs in your veins through the royal line. My line. It has run in our family since the line began. Many of your ancestors have had it and probably came to realize they had it much as you just did.” She told him gently._

_“Do you have it?” He inquired in a small voice, already guessing at the answer._

_“No.”_

_“Rogir, Corlyn and Julith don’t either.” He said quietly, lowering his eyes._

_“No, they don’t.” She confirmed. “But my father did. And his mother before him.”_

_He looked back up at her._

_“He told me that what helped him most was counting. ‘Count and breathe until the fire goes away.’ That was what he told me he did. Perhaps it will work for you.”_

_“I don’t want it to have to work for me. I want to be normal.” He was crying now._

_“Wishing won’t make it so.” She said kindly but firmly. She never lied to her children, nor did she sugarcoat anything she told them. She told Torrigan that she did that enough in life by reason of her role as Queen, but she would never do so in her role as a mother._  
_“You cannot change your blood, but you can try to change its effect on you.” She told him. “Sleep now, and think about it. You will accept it in time.” She kissed his forehead and his Charter Mark glowed faintly. Then she brushed a hand over his hair and left._

 _Tears were falling freely down his face. Torrigan reached up to wipe them away, angry that he was the one who was crying when he’d been the one who’d hurt someone else. He realized that his hand ached. He looked at it. His knuckles had been healed, but he could see the faint scars where the skin must have split as he punched the girl. The scars would be his reminder. He wouldn’t let it happen again. He would stay away from anything violent. If anyone insulted him or someone he loved, he would just close his ears and breathe like his mother said. If it worked for his grandfather, it could work for him._

He took a deep breath and tried to push his mind back to his bedroom, to that day six years ago.

“Stupid bastard.”

He could hear his mother’s voice.

“Stupid bastard.”

No, she hadn’t said that. She would never say that. He looked down at the scars on his knuckles.

“Count.” That was what she’d told him to do.

“Count and breathe until the fire dies down.”

He counted and the words got dimmer. 

“Stupid bastard.”

He counted up to 47.

He opened his eyes. Marq was crying quietly and Torrigan realized how hard he was gripping the other boy’s arms.

The apprentices had stopped working and stood frozen, gaping at him. He said nothing. He dropped Marq turned back to the forge. He cleared out the ice and got the fire going again by the day’s end.

The next day, he made himself go back to the upper eastern tower. Sir Smith pulled him aside as soon as he got to the top of the stairs. He followed the large man to his office, which was really just a separate workroom.

“Torrigan.”

“Sir.”

“I heard about the incident yesterday.”

Torrigan bowed his head. “I’m sorry sir.”

“It’s Marq you ought to apologize to if you want to apologize to someone, though from what I hear he wasn’t entirely blameless.”

Torrigan said nothing.

Smith sighed. “Lad, you have the strength, but your work is clumsy and you don’t want to be here.” Smith was as blunt as his hammer, but for once Torrigan appreciated it. Smith was right and Torrigan had known it since the first week. Still, he felt disappointed. He’d been ignoring the same comments that his own brain offered him every night in hopes he would improve, would find out how to fit in. He was running out of professions to try.

“Join the Guard.” The suggestion caught him by surprise.

“Pardon?”

“The Royal Guard. You’re strong and smart. You’d do better there.”

Maybe he could. He had managed not to beat Marq into a pulp when he’d insulted him. What was more, the talent for fighting spells he’d discovered when he’d apprenticed as a spellmaker had made him even more curious about the Guard than he had been when he was young. They always needed strong mages and fighters in the Guard. He was both, and he wasn’t stupid either, as Smith had said. _I’ll do it._ He decided. _I’ll ask the Lord Commander tonight._

…

They next morning he woke early and ate quickly.  
When he’d asked her, Lord Commander Lys had raised her eyebrows and said she’d expected him sooner.

“You start tomorrow. West courtyard. Six.”

He walked into the courtyard where the Guard practiced. It was cool, autumn. Four months from his fourteenth birthday.

He practiced everyday from six to six. Morning from six to nine was sword fighting. Sometimes they learned new maneuvers and practiced them. Other times they were paired up and told to use all they had learned. From nine to twelve they studied tactics and what to do when things did not go as planned. After lunch, from one to four they learned to fight with Charter magic and other weapons. The final two hours were dedicated to history lessons. 

For the first two years he would learn about the history of the Guard; the trials they had face and how they had succeeded or failed. After that he would learn everything there was to know about the other countries of the world. This was in case a member of the royal family traveled, as the Guard must travel with them, and in case they hosted visitors from another country.

Torrigan loved the Guard, though the days were long and hard. He loved the order, the drills, and how physically and mentally trying it was. He loved that he’d still be connected to his family, as their guard. 

He announced he would stay on the day of his 14th birthday. 

“I knew you’d find your place little brother.” Rogir beamed at him and ruffled his hair.

His mothers and sisters were also happy for him, Julith having returned from the North just a week previously. 

Lord Commander Lys had nodded when he told her. She’d told him she was glad of his choice. She’d even said he had potential. 

“If you work as hard as you have this past year, you’ll rise fast.” She shook his hand.

“Thank you, Dame. I will.”

He fit there. He didn’t get along with everyone, that was too much to hope for, but he got along with most of his fellow trainees. His status was not a consequence of birth, but of his actions and his words. 

What was more, Lord Commander Lys’s family had been in the Guard for six generations and had worked with members of the royal family who berserkered. She helped him to control it, taught him other methods of keeping his cool. She told him that it would improve with age. 

Lys suggested that he test his tools and so he asked his fellow trainees to taunt him, though he told them the risk. Only a few denied him.

They jeered and mocked him in every way they could think of. He almost lost himself on more than one occasion, but his friends encouraged him to keep going and he was touched by their trust and support. 

Two weeks before his sixteenth birthday, he told them what had happened when he was eight and when he’d tried to be a smith.

“But you didn’t breathe. You hid from it for six years.” Daya pointed out after he finished.

“I did.” He acknowledged. “Almost until my fourteenth birthday. I was scared.”

“You fool,” Demund said affectionately. “If you’d tried, you could have controlled it before now.”

“Would’ve, should’ve, could’ve.” Alex quipped. “What matters is that he’s got it under control now.”

They were right. He could control the berserker blood to some degree and fight honourably. And that was only three and a half months of progress. Rogir and the others could do the ruling. That was not his lot. He would protect them. With him there, nothing would ever harm them.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve decided that Ser or Dame was for a knight (like _Game of Thrones_. Well, the 'Ser' bit at least.) but Sir or Madam is for a teacher who hasn’t been knighted. Also, if anyone wants to know what a rebec is, here’s a picture: http://www.gaita.co.uk/rebec.JPG


End file.
